


i can't sleep

by dearfelix



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, very brief mention of sleeping pills and such
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-25 10:08:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15638574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearfelix/pseuds/dearfelix
Summary: “I know, I know. I’m headed to bed now,” Chan offers a sheepish smile.“It’s almost 4:30...” Woojin sounds disappointed, possibly worried, probably both.Or, where Chan leans on Woojin when he's tired.





	i can't sleep

**Author's Note:**

> chan's "i can't sleep" in insomnia + him calling woojin "a friend who is reliable and strong" who "i can lean on when i'm tired" really got me full stop emo so this happened
> 
> remember to stream my pace and buy their new album if you can!!!

 

 

 

It’s quiet for once. The living room, usually overrun with rambunctious members during the day, looks eerily deserted with just the soft glow of the lone lamp on their painstakingly constructed Ikea desk illuminating its four corners. Next to the lamp sits a small plastic clock, face slowly blinking: 3:45 am, 3:46 am, 3:47 am...

 

Perhaps if Chan spared the clock a glance he would find the flashing numbers almost mocking in nature—bleeding into the night, time waits for no one, least of all him—but Chan’s red rimmed eyes don’t stray from the laptop he’s been hunched over for long enough to develop a dull pain at the base of his craned neck.

 

The pain travels along his bony spine, from his neck to the small of his back; his hands are cramping too, due to alternating non-stop between his synthesizer and mouse. For Christmas last year Felix and Jisung had pooled their money to buy him an exorbitantly expensive computer mouse that molds to the shape of his hand, so the ache isn’t as bad as it could’ve been.

 

 _Just five more minutes,_ Chan promises himself, although even the nagging voice in his own head doesn’t believe his lies. He said the same thing an hour ago, and an hour before that when Seungmin had stumbled to the bathroom, looking surprised that he was still up. On the way back to his room, Seungmin had offered him a sympathetic smile.

 

It’s not unusual for Chan to stay up into the wee hours of the morning, but it’s a little strange for the others to be aware of it. He does a good job hiding his exhaustion during the day, slipping into a thirty minute power nap only on long car rides or backstage in the waiting room; at night, he hides away in a corner of the kitchen—only Felix occasionally wanders to the fridge after 8 pm because Minho constantly harps on the virtues of not eating late at night—or grinds away in a private practice room over at the JYP building.

 

Up until that snippet of him dozing off in his seat aired as part of their survival show, only Jisung and Changbin had understood the full extent of how far he pushed his body, mind, and endurance. It took him a lot of insistent assuaging to convince the rest of the members that _yes,_ he’s okay; _yes,_ he’ll take care of his health; and _yes,_ they have nothing to worry about.

 

Because Chan knows his limits. He couldn’t have survived seven gruesome, at times hopeless, years of trainee life if he didn’t. But the thing is, his limit is a long stretch away, a distant point on the horizon. He’ll lose his mind before he reaches it but know one has to know that.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s only when his eyelids start slipping shut against his will that Chan glances away from the screen. 4:08, the small clock reads. As expected, the numbers are innocent yet somehow mocking. He does some quick math in his head, stomach sinking a bit when he realizes that even if he goes to sleep right now, he’ll only have about an hour and a half before their manager comes knocking.

 

He’ll be okay though—he can nap on the twenty minute ride over to today’s CF photoshoot location and maybe get in a few more minutes of shut eye while the makeup artist is applying his foundation. If he had Felix and Minho’s round eyes and double eyelids, he’d be able to squeeze out an extra minute of rest in the styling chair but alas, his eyes are sloping crescents, resistant to the makeup artist’s attempts to accentuate them with inky black liner.

 

With one last flurry of _ctrl+S_ , Chan exits out of his music producing program, watching as the screen fades to black. He unfolds himself from the chair, twists this way and that to crack his aching back, and trudges toward the bathroom to wash up. Now that he thinks about it, he should’ve done his skincare routine earlier tonight. Looks like it’ll be another morning of hiding behind a face mask.

 

The cool water feels good against his skin—so, so good. He splashes some more across his face, allowing the droplets to slide down his slack jaw and disappear underneath the collar of the dress shirt he meant to change out of hours ago. He’s so out of it that the refreshing sensation does nothing to jolt his muddled brain.

 

It’s moments like this that Chan wants to stop. Stop surging forward, stop carrying a million and one burdens, stop smiling in assurance when he’s the one in need of it, stop...thinking. Even in his dreams, he’s haunted by thoughts, a chaotic mass of words, ideas, memories, and everything in between. A double edged sword, this chaos is the secret to his musical genius as well as the reason for the purple bruises under his eyes.

 

“Chan?”

 

The curly haired boy looks up warily, blinking into focus the figure hovering at the bathroom door.

 

It’s Woojin. Of course it’s Woojin. He’s wearing the Stray Kids shirt Chan had given the members during the last episode of The Ninth, as well as a pair of blue flannel pants. Under the bathroom’s harsh white light, Woojin look particularly cozy. Chan wants to hug the older boy, maybe collapse against his warm chest.

 

“I know, I know. I’m headed to bed now,” Chan offers a sheepish smile.

 

“It’s almost 4:30...” Woojin sounds disappointed, possibly worried, probably both. Chan follows without protest as Woojin tugs him toward the bedrooms, too tired to question why they’re entering the room Woojin shares with Minho, Felix, and Jeongin (the “parents and babies” room, the members often joke). Woojin gently pushes him onto his bed, joining a moment later. He doesn’t speak again until they’re both settled in under the covers, legs tangled as they face each other, so close that their breaths mingle too but neither of them mind the vague discomfort.

 

“Why are you up so late _again_?”

 

“...Our comeback is coming up y’know. We’re running out of time.”

 

That’s half true. Their first comeback, an absolutely crucial comeback that will make or break all of their careers, is in a few weeks and he still can’t get the background vocals of _Insomnia_ to blend the way he envisioned. The song is also missing something—he needs an English line, simple and strong, for when the beat drops—but his mind draws a blank every time he sits down to brainstorm lyrics. The barrage of dead ends makes him want to delete the track entirely and start again from scratch. In fact, he would’ve if not for Jisung carefully moving his finger away from the delete key during 3RACHA’s latest producing session.

 

Chan hopes his lame excuse is enough to soften Woojin’s eyes, which are piercing even in the darkness.

 

“Chan,” Woojin whispers, more firmly this time, “What’s the real reason?”

 

Woojin’s voice has this effect on him, made more lethal by the current weakness of his own defenses. Instead of supplying another half truth, Chan finds himself choking out a sob...and then suddenly he loses the last of his tightly held control. It’s awful, this feeling. He hates it more than anything. He’s the leader for fuck’s sake, holding in the palm of his hand the lives of eight young men, some of whom are literal children who exchanged their youth for the spotlight, so- why?

 

Again silent, Woojin pulls him closer so his sobs are muffled by the older’s broad chest. Just as he thought, Woojin is cozy and warm, a welcome comfort that Chan doesn’t hesitate to cling to, perhaps a bit too desperately. He needs this—to let loose and cry; he needs him—Woojin, his dependable pillar of support and love.

 

As his tears slow to a trickle, Woojin still doesn't say a word; it occurs to Chan that the older boy is waiting for him to answer his question. Woojin is patient like that.

 

The words catch in his throat when he tries to speak. It’s harder than he expected to admit it out loud to someone other than himself; Chan takes another moment to steel himself and tries again.

 

“I can’t sleep.”

 

To clarify- “I _can’t_ sleep.”

 

He doesn’t have to continue beyond that. He knows from the way that Woojin begins carding long fingers through his messy curls that the latter understands. Woojin doesn’t bring up the half empty bottle of Melatonin idling on Chan’s nightstand or the slightly dusty sleeve of sleeping pills in a dark corner of the medicine cabinet or the litany of untouched sleep aid apps on Chan’s phone that are downloaded and deleted in one breath.

 

Woojin simply massages his scalp, wraps him up tighter in the soft blanket, and whispers, _Sleep_.

 

 

 

 

 

Later that day, after waking up from his third ten minute nap of the day, Chan finds Woojin lounging on the waiting room sofa just inches away. On instinct, he scoots closer, pressing their arms together and lightly laying his head on the older boy’s shoulder. Even Woojin’s squared shoulders are firm, dependable.

 

He’s reminded of Felix’s lyrics in Mixtape #1— _An anchor dragging me down like I always feel hopeless._ If he thinks about it, that line is usually interpreted as negative but can also be positive because an anchor keeps one grounded, keeps one from drifting aimlessly on turbulent waves or crashing against jagged rocks along the shore.

 

With Woojin, who’s more reliable and stronger than any of them after having faced rejection after rejection with lonesome resolve and emerging even brighter than before...yes, with Woojin, Chan can ground himself. He can _stay_ for a while in one place rather than rushing, rushing, rushing at an ever maddening pace toward the next objective.

 

He can lean on Woojin when he’s tired.

 

He can sleep.

 

One moment he’s enjoying the moment, Woojin’s quiet warmth settling over him like a summer haze, and in the next his scattered thoughts are clicking into place: lyrics...sleep.. _._

 

“Hey, I think I finally have an English line for the hook of _Insomnia_!”

 

Woojin hums in amusement at Chan’s excited tone, “Oh? What is it?”

 

He thinks back to the dreamlike hours of the morning, when his frustrated tears soaked Woojin’s t-shirt and the latter understood with the simplest of words why he may never reach his limit, but still marches toward it with the disciplined determination of a soldier with nothing and therefore everything to lose.

 

_I can't sleep._

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos are appreciated~♡
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/smileyfelix) / [tumblr](https://smileyfelix.tumblr.com)


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